


Request Diversion

by EscapePub



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, Genre: AU, M/M, warning: unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EscapePub/pseuds/EscapePub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin joins "Knapp-Shappey's Transport: Directions, Drives, and Drop-offs," one of the few local businesses run by psychics. The boss' son is thrilled with him, but his one and only coworker is... well, not of the same mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Fact

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt at the Cabin Pressure kink meme (http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/1249.html?thread=1435105#t1435105): "So, can we have a psychic!AU please, where MJN does stuff with psychic talents rather than owning a jet?"

Three men stood on the pavement before a small shop. Golden lettering in old font declared it to be "Knapp-Shappey's Transport: Directions, Drives, and Drop-offs." A van bearing the same logo blocked two of the men from view, but one remained visible to passersby. If any one of them had spared a glance his way, they might have glimpsed the sudden paling of his pinked cheeks and the slow banishment of the smile that had once cheered his face. But no one did, and so no one (aside from the two behind the van) saw him disappear.

Arthur Shappey, of Knapp-Shappey's Transport, cringed. "I do believe that was a mistake, Douglas."

"Oh, come on," Douglas Richardson, prime transporter and once renowned Master of the Skies, replied dismissively. The bundle under his arm slipped out of his hold and tumbled to the ground, evading his one faint attempt at capture. "He's ruined my marriage. Surely I've built up enough credit to allow some light teasing."

A winter wind swept down the sidewalk, prompting both men to take shelter under the shop's eves.

Arthur pressed on despite the noise. "I don't think so. See, what I've got that you haven't, is empathy--the real sort--and I'm telling you, you've really hurt Martin's feelings."

Douglas rolled his eyes and snatched the parcel for Japan from the ground before it could be blown to the other end of London. Quickly, he snarked, "Thank you for that astounding insight, Arthur," and, with a dramatic step and proud chin level, he blinked out of existence. It was done with rather more flourish and pizazz than the first man's disappearance.

Arthur gasped and jerked backward, blinking rapidly. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "That gets me every time. Mum!" he called, pushing open the door of the shop. The bell rang out half-heartedly and the overweight woman behind the counter looked up in much the same fashion. "Douglas has gone after Martin." He was met with a familiar singe of irritation. "No, Mum, he felt a bit regretful when he left; I think he means to apologize!"

His mother waved a hand, as if to sweep it all away. "What a pointless interruption," she groused. "Fine. I'm sure Martin's work ethic won't keep him from the delivery for very long, anyhow. I assume Douglas probed where he shouldn't have again? Is that what this is all about?"

Arthur nodded, hands behind his back. "Yeah, and I really wish he hadn't. It makes me wonder if he knows all my secrets, too." He twisted his face up, presumably into a “troubled” expression, but it was no secret that he was actually thrilled with the idea of having his mind read.

The woman pinched her lips together, flipped the page of an open book, and scribbled a note in the margin. "You don't have any secrets, Arthur. They are impossible to keep if one is, as you are, unable to withhold information."

"That's not true!" Arthur protested, coming up to the counter. "I haven't told you what Douglas said about Martin, have I? That he--"

"YES, and let's keep it that way," the woman interrupted hurriedly. "Now be a dear and hand me the Anderson account. He's trying to escape last week's delivery fee. Anderson, I'll tell you, now that's a special kind of idiot. Maybe even more than you, dearest heart."

Arthur paused, hands over the book, and studiously did not look up. She was feeling awfully pleased with herself, and he knew what that meant. "I don't think that was actually a compliment, mum."

There was a moment of inactivity. Arthur looked up.

She had unfolded her spectacles and settled them low on her nose. Her eyes scanned the log book. "Smart boy," she quipped.

Now sure that he hadn't been granted a shred of compliment, Arthur put the account on the counter. He leaned over and kissed her forehead quickly, before she could swat him away.

She mumbled something that Arthur didn't understand, but assumed was mildly insulting, and he laughed.

It didn't matter what his mum said; there was always something very fond in her feeling when she spoke to him. She couldn't lie to him, not in emotion (where it mattered), and in return he never lied in anything. Couldn't, actually, because it inspired tremendous, crippling guilt at having taken absolute truth and given none in return. It made their relationship very simple; in fact, all of Arthur's relationships were simple.

Arthur went into the back room and attempted coffee, and though it wasn't for Martin or Douglas, he still thought of them. He wondered how, if Douglas could read the contents of a mind so extraordinarily clearly, he could justify deceit; he wondered why, if life could be so very simple, Martin always encountered trouble.

\--

 

The attic was cold, as always. The bed was perfectly made, the floor swept clean, but Martin's person was not so impeccable. He wasn't crying, but his face burned with the remnants of embarrassment and anger.

He had a job to do, a delivery due in Paris ASAP, but he needed a moment. Normally, his fervor for transport and perfectionist tendencies would have had him at the site ten minutes ago. It was true that Martin wasn't feeling normal, however.

In the next second, a change in the atmosphere chilled Martin's skin even further, and a cold wind whipped momentarily through the enclosed attic. "Douglas," he breathed, shifting hastily from his curled position into a hardly more dignified sprawl. He craned his neck to the right, in the direction of his bed. The sneering face of his rival and partner looked down on him from the center of the room. "I-I, this is my home!" he protested, wetting his lips with sudden, intense agitation. "How could you have possibly known--?"

The intruding man sighed and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Martin, have you forgotten that I happen to be able to read minds, and that our employer, who I will remind you is aware of where all her employees live, is a remote viewer? She led me straight to you. I assure you I did no sleuthing of my own, or stalking, for that matter."

Martin's face colored rapidly. "Well, I had hoped that your run-in with the E.B. had granted you the slightest bit of restraint. Of course I was wrong." He laughed humorlessly and pressed himself harder against the attic wall. "Why do I overestimate you like this?"

Douglas regarded him silently for a moment. He caught Martin's eye and held it. "So, you're actually upset, are you? You're going to let a bit of fun between friends interfere with your work?"

Instantly infuriated once more, Martin pushed himself up from the floor. "A bit of fun between friends? You call that fun, Douglas? That was humiliation! That was none of yours, or anyone's business but mine! Don't come here and tell me I'm a fool, you arrogant sod, because I know it already and not for the reasons you're claiming."

The man sighed, as if put upon by this display of emotion, and held out a pacifying hand. "Look, I've just come to say I'm sorry--"

Sickened, Martin interrupted him. "Right, okay, you're sorry. You're very sorry, though you do think I'm making it bigger than it is, and you wish I'd just get over it. Really, it's my problem, but you'll apologize for the sake of your damn job! But, of course, I understand how you feel--I do! As if happens, this is the only job I can get, too, though I didn't dig around in the mind and pants of the boss' daughter to land myself here!"

It was quiet, aside from Martin's slight panting, and a slow regret grew in his belly. It was ridiculous, he told himself. He'd said nothing that wasn't true, he'd given back no more than Douglas had initially given, and this guilt was the product of manipulation--of mistaken allegiance to a man he'd mistaken for a friend.

Said man took a small step back from Martin and sat neatly on the edge of his bed. It protested his wait shrilly for a moment but quieted in the next. Then, he spoke. "Yes, I deserved that, didn't I?"

Martin's hands couldn't find a suitable place to be, and made it their duty to awkwardly fidgets from position to position as confusion set in. "You did," he confirmed, voice a notch too high on the last note.

The man, senior to Martin in what seemed every way, rubbed a hand over his lined face. Dull light seeped in through the dusty window above the bed and shifted through his wavy, thinning hair. He looked up at Martin and held his gaze again, eyes steady, but something in his demeanor was kinder. "I'm a liar, Martin; but, believe me when I say I regret any decision that would bring harm to our relationship."

Silence prevailed, and Martin wallowed in it. He sat, exhaled quietly; turned his head away from that calm, carefully apologetic stare; and called himself an idiot. "Me too," he said and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was in Paris.

\--


	2. One Year Previous

Martin stared at himself in the mirror of his cold, grimy bathroom. His hair was slicked back with water, which looked fine at the moment, but he knew it wasn't a permanent fix; stray locks would reappear and stick up in various directions, but there was nothing to be done about it. He didn't have hair products to speak of. The van hadn't seen too many miles that week.

Aside from the gloomy prospects of his unruly hair, there was the state of his suit. It was old, older than he knew to be acceptable for job interview attire, and he had a nagging fear in the back of his head that he'd missed a bit of cobweb on his arse or some other mortifying spot. He'd had to pay a visit to his mum, get into his father's closet, and it had been terrible--akin to digging at the man's grave, if you took his sister's protests seriously.

"It isn't right," she'd told him over the phone. She, Caitlin, was staying with mum for now, what with the funeral preparations and general stress to be getting on with. "You can't deny, Martin, that you never did a thing for the man; really, he wouldn't want you to have any of his things."

Yes, aside from his van, apparently. She had him there.

"And mum's in a right state without you coming in, stealing a three hundred pound suit, and using it to do exactly what da didn't want for you! It's selfish, Martin. Damn selfish."

He didn't know what to make of her anymore. She was, at one time, his best friend. His only ally in an unkind home and school environment. He was the older brother that sat with his sister at recess and entertained her at home; in return, she adored him. He didn't quite know how they'd got where they were now.

Martin pressed his palms down hard against his hair and exhaled heavily. It was a good interview. It was a good, solid interview with a legitimate employer for people of his sort. There had been no bias present in her voice when he spoke with Mrs. Knapp-Shappey over the phone, though she had spoken in a brisk manner. That was good though, he reminded himself. She sounded a real businesswoman.

"It'll be good," he said aloud, leaning against the sink. His eyes were too bright, like he'd been staring into a wind or was simply overemotional. He had a pock-mark at thirty-two, just below his nose. He wasn't ready, because he wasn't perfect, but there was nothing to be done. Martin watched his pupils dilate and contract, dilate and contract, until his pathetically cheap watch pinged at him to get a move on.

With one last nervous glance at his reflection, Martin stepped from the bathroom and wrapped a scarf about his neck. He was off.  
\--

The shop's interior was dark, and composed of burgundy walls and black bookshelves filled with hand-written books. There were four black, thin chairs to the left of the entrance. A thin, dark carpet covered the floor, interrupted only by a mahogany writing desk on the right wall of the shop.

A cheery man sat behind the desk, on a tall stool that meant he looked down on Martin when he said, "Ah, hello! Welcome to Knapp-Shappey's Transport. I am Arthur Shappey, and it would be my pleasure to serve yourself if yourself will be needing any serving this fine afternoon."

Martin spared a glance to the outside, where it was not, thank you very much, a "fine afternoon." He pressed his fingers into damp suit pockets and inclined his head at the man. He stood and approached the desk. "Good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Shappey. I-I'm Martin Crieff, here for an interview at five o'clock."

Mr. Shappey's eyes widened horrifically. "Oh, wow! You're a transporter, then? I mean--" He rounded the counter and stepped too close to Martin, leaning in conspiratorially. "You can teleport?" he begged. "You really can?"

Martin swallowed, neck jutted back uncomfortably, and nodded.

Arthur's response was instantaneous. "WOW," he repeated, and grabbed Martin's right hand in both of his own. "I'm a big fan, Mr. Crieff, sir, I really am. Do you have any other abilities? Because, those too--I'm a big fan of those, as well!"

Martin's throat seemed to close in on itself, but he managed to squeak out, "Well, I-I am a fair telekinetic. That is to say, I can, if placed in a conducive environment, move objects at will."

"Brilliant!" Arthur cried, still shaking Martin's hand up and down.

He gabbed on for a while, citing this or that pointless experience and thought concerning the psychic population, but Martin found he didn't mind. Arthur and he settled down on a window seat the right of the door that he hadn't noticed at first, and Martin allowed this fanatic to thoroughly stroke an ego he hadn't noticed within himself in a long time. Arthur did, of course, release Martin's hand at one point, but they sat rather close together on the padded window seat. It felt, to Martin, more intimate than holding hands.

Eagerly, Martin did a fair bit of his own pointless jabbering, as he was want to do when transport was an encouraged topic. From there, he dipped quite unexpectedly into his personal life, but he somehow felt comfortable speaking this way with Arthur. The man nodded at all the right places, laughed genuinely at every opportunity, and generally did a very good job of listening.

At one point, Martin made vague reference to his father's recent death, and his enthusiasm deflated just enough that he thought it prudent to steer the conversation away from himself. "So, what about you, Arthur?" he asked.

Arthur blinked wide, childish eyes at him, mouth a tiny bit agape. "Me?" he repeated. "What about me?"

"Well..." Martin frowned, looked about the shop for inspiration, and turned back to Arthur without having received any. "Do you, erm, have any hobbies, interests, or abilities that you find interesting like you find psychics?"

Arthur laughed, a small, delighted sound, and nodded. "Oh, of course! Actually, I'm an empath, or so they say, because it can be hard to imagine that not everybody can tell how other people are feeling. But I've been told that they don't, they really don't, and I try to remember that in conversation. As in, I don't say to the lady out there," he gestured at the window, where a woman could be seen on the opposite side of the street, huddled under a purple umbrella. "I don't say to her, 'No need to worry like that! Your husband's not a very nice man, but you won't be with him for very much longer, and that girl you've been seeing on the side loves you to pieces. You'll be happy soon enough, so might as well smile now!' "

Martin stared.

"Yeah... I don't tell her that, one: because obviously I don't want to go out in the rain! And, two: because she'd probably slap me. Which I learned the hard way! Haha!" Arthur's laugh fell away, and for the first time, a frown came onto his face. "Hey, don't be like that, Martin. You've done wonderfully, you really have."

He was stunned, and then embarrassed because he now knew Arthur could tell, could feel it in the very air, and then look deeper into the source and eventual outcome of that feeling. Could, in a way, see bits of future. "What's your position here, Arthur?" he asked through a painfully dry throat. A subdued anxiety brewed in his stomach.

"I cook, most of the time," Arthur replied, leaning back on his palms. "I help customers book transports when mum absolutely can't. And then, quite rarely--actually only two times now--I interview prospective transporters. Mum makes the actual decision, of course, so technically I can't tell you if you've got the job or not."

Martin exhaled loudly and sucked back in a ragged breath. He only just restrained himself from running a hand through his hair, which he now remembered must look terrible after all this time. "I had been wondering why it was taking so long for the interview to start," he said, and pushed through his shock to smile at Arthur. "Really, do you think I did well?"

Seemingly unable to contain himself, Arthur put his hands on Martin's shoulders and lowered his head to Martin's level. He evaluated Martin quietly for a moment, staring him straight in his eyes, and then he began. "I don't normally tell people this stuff, because, like I said about the lady, they'd probably hit me, but I don't think you'll hit me. So, I think I can tell you: You don't need to worry about dinner anymore, Skip, and we're going to be very good friends." Arthur gave his shoulders a light squeeze and smiled warmly.

It had been so long since someone had looked at Martin with real kindness.

"Thank you, Arthur," he said quietly, and looked down at his lap.

Arthur removed his hands, aware that he had begun to feel uncomfortable, Martin realized.

Sudden enough to make Martin jolt, Arthur giggled. "If you think that's uncomfortable," he said, "just wait until you meet Douglas."


	3. “How to Make Winning First Impressions,” by Douglas Richardson

As Martin would come to find was always the case, Arthur was right. In this particular one, he was right about Douglas and the (to put it mildly) discomfort he would produce.

It was Martin's first day at Knapp-Shappey's Transport, or as they were casually referred to: MJN Air (people were so romantic about the archaic flying machines, and Martin often found himself fascinated with them as well). He arrived early and clean, eager as he was nervous for the coming action. He hadn't a clue how a formal transport business really operated, or how this particular one would oblige the regulations, or who (most importantly) this Douglas Richardson was. Why, why, of all things, his new employer had placed him, Martin, in a position senior to a man with an extraordinary amount of experience, talent, and reputation, Martin had no idea.

Nervous and excited all the same, Martin pushed open the ornate door and stepped over the black, rubber welcome mat. The bell jingled above him merrily. No one was out front as of yet. Martin assumed they gathered in the back for their meetings, but he had hoped Arthur would come and guide him through it all. He wasn't comfortable with guesswork.

A rumble of voices was suddenly audible, followed closely by the distant opening of a door. After a few moments, a white-haired and serious looking woman came into view. She closed the farthest hall door behind her, and turned in his direction. She caught sight of him.

"Ah, Mr. Crieff, I presume," she greeted, making her way down the hall briskly. She came forward and he outstretched his hand; they shook.

Martin smiled and hoped it conveyed assurance. "Call me Martin, ma'am."

"Well then, Martin, you may call me Carolyn. Now," she turned on her heel, "follow me."

They walked down the hallway, returning straight to the door she'd come from without any diversions, Martin noticed. It seemed that she'd come out front only to fetch him, drawn by the noise of the bell, it could only be. He thought it strange the noise carried that far.

Carolyn held the wooden door open for him, and he glanced inside quickly before inclining his head in thanks. He entered post haste, nervous with the pleasantries, and came to stand next to a fold out table in the middle of the room with coffee and biscuits stacked modestly high upon it. Straight ahead, on the far wall, was a television playing the morning news. Before that, was a small glass coffee table. A long, brown couch separated the kitchen area from the sitting room, where a red love-seat sat to the left of the couch and a leather armchair to it's right. Lastly, on the left wall, behind and to the left of the love-seat, was another black, wooden door.

The door closed behind them, and Martin turned round to inspect the kitchen area more fully. A blue counter hugged the right corner and stretched to cover the adjacent walls as well. Cabinets were screwed neatly into the wall above the counter on the far right, and a sink was nestled into the corner, with a coffee maker in the process of brewing on the left side. A half-eaten toblorone decorated the stretch of counter beneath the cabinets, a foot from the sizzling pot.

Martin had an easily repressed, but nonetheless present urge to move the candy farther away. He wouldn't attempt such a thing first day on the job, however. It wasn't something he could consistently do. Until his telekinesis was second-hand, Martin would not use it in company.

Carolyn strode straight over to the newest door and pulled it open. What was beyond it, Martin could not see, but no light spilled from the opening. He craned his head to the right, attempting to see around Carolyn's form, but in the next second a tall, older man had stepped through the doorway.

The man sighed and wiped droplets of water from his face, removing his black fedora with his other hand.

It wasn't raining in London.

"Good lord," the man's deep voice rumbled. "Scotland is terrible this time of year. Oh, hello, Martin." The man removed a leather glove from his right hand and stepped forward, arm outstretched.

Martin met him halfway. "H-hullo," he replied, gripping a larger, colder hand. He made to pull away, having relaxed his fingers already, but the man's hand kept hold. Awkward and unsure, Martin reapplied his grip, and a sudden thrill ran up his arm, as of a pinched nerve. He stilled, breath caught, and slowly looked up.

Lazy, yet eerily intent brown eyes stared back at him. The man's right eyebrow was raised imperiously; even the set of his eyes reeked of elitism. "You know my name already, of course? Arthur must have mentioned me. I'm Douglas, Douglas Richardson. It's a pleasure." Moments passed in complete stillness, their painful eye-lock still intact, until Douglas smirked and released him.

Martin looked down that very instant and stepped away, wiping his hand surreptitiously against his pant leg, though the ghost of Douglas' hand would not be rubbed off. He bumped into the kitchen table, startled himself to the point of a quiet gasp, and kept his flaming face down as he maneuvered around it. "Charmed," he said quietly, glancing at this Douglas, Douglas Richardson.

Douglas had already made himself comfortable on the brown couch, with his feet on the coffee table and a cup of coffee in his hand. But he hadn't gotten any coffee, surely he hadn't. Martin had been standing right beside it—had run into it—while Douglas dawdled over to lounge on the couch. He hadn't walked in with a coffee, so—

_Yes, that's right._

Martin's breath stopped and his eyes were inexplicably drawn to the back of that brunette head. A presence in the back of his mind reached out, dulling his other senses, but it faded, unanswered, after a matter of seconds. He knew what this was.

No, Martin thought, abruptly panicked. No, he couldn't be so blessed.

_Incidentally, I can, and am._

"Do sit down, Martin," Carolyn said, returning from the black door with Arthur beside her.

But Martin couldn't very well think, let alone move to sit down. Not with a man in his head, thinking every thought he had right along with him. Inserting new ones. Transporting items across the room casually. Transporting to Scotland and back in a morning. "I don't believe it," he said, voice airy and barely audible.

At once, Arthur had a hand around each of Martin's biceps. He looked down at him with a wrinkle between his eyes and a smile on his lips. "Your first day!" he reminded Martin, shaking him a bit. "You're going to the other side of London first, then, if you're up to it, FRANCE! Oh, I wish I could go. They've such funny hats in France."

Where Arthur touched him, the anxiety seemed to pull away, like a poison from his veins, and breath came back into Martin. He inhaled as quietly as could be managed, but a strange gasping noise broke free despite his best efforts.

Arthur pulled him over the coffee machine and poured him a cup. He kept a soothing, empathic hand on Martin's left arm the entire time.

When the cup had been poured black, Martin opened his mouth to deliver his preferences for the make, but his mind blanked at the appropriate moment, and he was left with the hazy intuition that he was not alone.

"Two sugars, lots of creme," Douglas called from the couch, where, Martin could see, he was now enjoying a jam tart.

Martin's thoughts became sharp with anger. He pushed the presence from his mind, livid, and turned to the utterly relaxed form on the couch. "Stop it," he said, fists clenched. He pulled his arm away from Arthur and stepped forward. "Stop looking in my head. That wasn't consensual, was thus _illegal_ , and I won't stand for it."

Douglas was suddenly directly in front of him, looking down at him from what seemed a great height advantage. He laughed, a masculine, smooth sound, and smiled disarmingly. Or what Martin assumed was meant to be disarming on the surface.

Just beneath those stretched lips, Martin imagined he could hear the salivating of a great cat, a tiger stalking prey, and it chilled him to the bone. "I won't have it," Martin whispered, and then more loudly: "I will go to the E.B. if you continue this--this infringement of basic human rights. Of privacy!" he declared, and glanced nervously around the room. Why hadn't Carolyn stepped in at some point? How could she allow such disgusting behavior to unfold in her place of business?

A familiar emptiness engulfed his mind. A split second later, it was gone, and Martin reassembled his thoughts hurriedly. A sense of vulnerability ate away at his gut, so much so that he reached faintly for the sink, fearing sickness.

Douglas scoffed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and exhaled heavily. "Because she's not a complete idiot," Douglas informed, reaching around him to snatch another biscuit and napkin. "And can tell when telepathy is employed maliciously versus playfully."

Martin shrank back.

"Oh, now I've wounded you, have I? You display abject disgust at a natural element of my nature, threaten me with legal force, and still manage to become the victim! Well done." Douglas was on the couch again in an instant, and it was if he had never left it, as if Martin had fought with an imagined foe while Knapp-Shappey's Transport and Co. carried on with their business.

"Martin," Carolyn inserted from behind him.

He started and turned around, flushed and fidgety. "Yes?"

She leaned in the doorway from the hall, eyebrows raised. "Has Douglas harassed you yet?"

Martin swallowed. What could he say now? 'Oh, yes, Carolyn, your finest transporter, the finest transporter I've ever dreamed of meeting, has well and surely ripped me to shreds and then proceeded to point out why I was in the wrong. I really want this job, but this is all very stressful. Any possible chance I will never have to see him again?'

"What am I saying, of course he has," she saved him.

"He really has," Arthur contributed, handing Martin his coffee, who squeaked his thanks. "Told you he'd be discomfit—uncomfort—well, not very nice. Told you, didn't I? But it's not so bad, is it?" He placed a hand on Martin's shoulder for a moment and the newly steeped stress once again edged out. He wondered where Arthur put it all.

Douglas made a noise, as if to speak, but Carolyn overrode him.

"Yes, well, we've all been there. Just give him a good kick when he gets out of hand," she allowed, pursing her lips.

Arthur giggled and Carolyn and he shared a quick look.

"Oh, yes," Douglas chirped up. He could be heard flipping through a magazine, one of the only two on the table. "Like a dog begging under the dining table. Good kick right in the rips will do the trick."

"I would never kick a dog, Douglas," Carolyn replied. "Only egotistical telepaths. Come on then, Martin." She turned to him briskly. "I've got your first assignment."

With one last glance at the couch, Martin took leave of the room, Carolyn in the lead. As he walked down the dark hall, he felt a warmth between his shoulder blades, like the soothing press of Arthur's empathic hands, and he sighed out the last of his discomfort. Yes, it was just a rocky start, he told himself. It was just the beginning.


	4. As Lions and Lambs Will

A week into the job, Martin wasn’t so avidly hopeful that things would improve. The rocky start had continued on and would, he feared, continue indefinitely.

Life as a transporter was not as glamorous as Martin had imagined. He had hoped to experience distant lands, to develop his abilities under the encouraging gaze of a senior transporter, and eventually become a well respected psychic. As it turned out, Martin was more of a glorified postman than a captain, pilot, flier, or any of the other stupid names people threw around in school.

Work proceeded as follows for Martin: He would wake up, come into the shop at seven, drink coffee and eat biscuits, and if anyone came in with a package needing to get somewhere within three hundred miles, Martin got the job; any further, and Douglas did. Also, if anyone needed to be transported personally, as in a teleporting taxi, Douglas would get the job. (Martin hadn't scored well enough on the partner teleport section of his boards to get that specific qualification, but he was studying to take it again in the next few months).

Each job Martin performed seemed the same as the last, like a dog stuck in an endless loop of fetching. "Go get it, Martin! Good boy! Let go now, Martin," and he'd drop the metaphorical ball from his metaphorical dog jaw and disappear back into the lounge. Or rather, back into Hell.

It wasn't Hell simply because Martin was disenchanted with the whole experience. No, Martin had understood on some level that his expectations were absurd, that there would be a pecking order, that he would have no authority; and, of course, his hope for exotic travel was entirely fanciful, as Martin couldn't manage to transport a great distance yet. He just couldn't do it. All of this in mind, the reality of the job was not unexpected and ultimately not unwelcome. What was unwelcome, what was Hell, was sitting in a room with Douglas Richardson for five days straight.

Douglas wasn't always there, of course, and he was often delayed on his transports (especially those to Hawaii), but for an overly large portion of Martin's day, he was subjected to the chilling anxiety of psychic threat--the knowledge that, at any moment, an unconcerned telepath could dive right into his mind and toy with the contents. Could spill every secret he'd ever had, every rude thought, every stupid impulse. When Douglas was in the lounge, sitting nonchalantly on the couch, feet up, tea in hand, Martin felt as if the top of his head were sawed off; he felt like he was speaking every thought aloud and doing everything he thought of doing for even a flash of a moment—e.g. kick the table over, buy a dog, quit, take his boards, fail his boards, touch Arthur, snap at Arthur, snap at Douglas, cry. All of it was out in the open, it felt, even if Douglas wasn't in his mind; even if he hadn't done it since the day he met Martin. Because he could, and because he had no compunctions about doing so, he was always doing it. In this way, the lounge was Hell.

Of course, Arthur would come into the lounge to make coffee and chat, but he stayed up at the store front for the majority of the time. Helping his mother with the customers, Martin assumed. There wasn't a constant stream of them, or even a regular dribble, but they came frequently enough that it would do to keep a man on the floor. However, it wouldn't do for Martin to be on the floor, as it was a fairly small shop, and he tended to get in the way wherever he stood. He had attempted this, to escape a particularly frightening Douglas on Wednesday, and Carolyn had stared him back down the hall quite quickly.

So it was that Martin began to resent the luxurious back room, with its wide-screen telly, seemingly constant stream of jam tarts, and its endless supply of inconsiderate telepaths. They didn't engage in conversation, as Douglas seemed to prefer watching women's tennis and sleeping, but every once in a while Martin would look up from one of his various texts, reach for his cup of tea, and pause. He'd think, "Maybe if I just broke the ice," or, "Perhaps I was partly to blame for our getting off on the wrong foot." Then, he'd swallow, glance at Douglas, and lose his nerve. He'd pick up his beverage and resume his novel.  
\--

At the start of the second week, he began to lose hope that things would ever smooth over--that Douglas would ever speak more than a cursory greeting in the morning before promptly falling asleep among the cushions. He did, however, feel more comfortable in his privacy. Douglas hadn't shown any interest in talking to him, let alone prying into his mind for a bit of cruel playtime. Secure in the knowledge that Douglas found him about as fascinating as a throw-rug, Martin began to relax.

He fantasized about flying again, and yearned to develop his skills. He thought of finally becoming skilled in partner transport, of what it would feel like to hover (if he ever got the hang of it). He imagined what the Atlantic would look like from two hundred feet in the air, and wondered if he might ever be able to walk on water. Oh, what an experience that should be!

But then, the telly would rumble with the cheers of a crowd, or an overly loud reporter would demand his attention, and Martin would remember his current situation.

Which wasn't to say his life experience had not improved. In fact, it had improved greatly. He had received a prompt check at the end of his first week (surely due to some persuasion by Arthur, who just somehow knew Martin lived off bread) and today his fridge was adequately filled. He even had his electricity back, as he'd sent in the late payment the very day Carolyn handed him his due. Yes, things were looking up at home, and the very thought of Arthur brought a peculiar warmth to Martin's chest; so, a few hours a day with an unpleasant man was... no real sacrifice. None at all.  
\--

The Tuesday of the third week, Martin began his day normally. He showed up at work on time, he greeted Carolyn politely, stole a bit of pleasant time from Arthur, got a wonderful squeeze of the shoulder (as happened when he was lucky), and then made for the dreaded hallway. Before opening the black door, he adjusted his tie and swallowed, dawdling as long as possible, but embarrassment forced him in sooner rather than later.

The door creaked open under his palm, and Martin peeked through rather childishly. He caught himself, though, and stepped through the doorway as confidently as could be managed. He spotted the graying head of Douglas Richardson over the top of the sofa. Martin's stomach swooped unpleasantly, as if evading a cascade of ice water.

 _I'll just read my texts_ , he thought. _No conversation, no stress of interaction. He's not going to bother me! He hasn't any reason to! Of course this worry is ridiculous..._

Closing the door behind him, Martin stepped up to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup, adding ungodly amounts of creme and little sugar. In the sitting area, Douglas could be heard flipping through the same magazine again, meanwhile the news from New Zealand murmured from the telly. Politeness pushed Martin to offer Douglas refreshment, or a snack, at this point of every day, and every day he resisted valiantly, before piping up:

"Coffee?"

And received inevitable rejection. "No thank you, Chief."

That damned nickname. Douglas had picked it up in the middle of the second week, chose it straight from Martin's own thoughts when he'd lapsed into a lavish fantasy about future employment. It had been an absurd daydream, of course, and not necessarily accurate of his desires (Martin didn't actually fancy a hat so greatly decorated that it demanded superior neck strength to withstand wearing), but Douglas wasn't picky about what he tormented Martin with or what he intruded upon in Martin's mind. Thus, he got a lot of, "Hey, Chief"s and "Absolutely, Commander"s; and once, when Martin had protested Douglas' use of "sir" in addressing Martin, Douglas had drawled, "I will attempt to keep that in mind, but from time to time I may slip into awe of sir's commanding presence, and the title might _bubble up_ unintentionally."

Martin tried not to talk, mostly. He wasn't quite sure why one ludicrous dream could spur such vehement sarcasm, but it had to have. What else could Martin have done to so irritate Douglas in the short time he'd known him? If anyone had the right to be unpleasant, it was Martin! The man whose mind was regularly infiltrated by a right bastard with no qualms about sharing the contents with the world! Martin imagined that Douglas was the sort of telepath who interfered when blokes were chatting up women, cutting in to say, "He's not a doctor; he's in school, pretending that eventually he'll be a doctor," or, "He's taken his boards five times so far, and he hasn't even passed every section."

After creating a pleasant collage of fatty and sugary treats on a plate, Martin grabbed his coffee with his free hand and moved to the armchair in the far right corner of the sitting area. He had chosen this position strategically, and he knew Douglas had at least deduced his reasoning because he took every opportunity to foil his attempts. Martin sat in the armchair, with a little table to his left, because: 1) Douglas sat on the far left end of the couch. 2) When the door to the "storage room" opened, a bit of whatever weather Douglas had experience just before teleporting would wash into the room, meaning Douglas could very well push Texas heat at Martin whenever he pleased, or England rain when he fancied. 3) It was dark, and thus made him feel safely hidden, but the unnatural glow of the telly still lit up the face of his texts well enough to read. 4) On the other side of the wall to his back, Arthur often sat and texted with him when customers weren't in, and it felt like Martin could at any moment speak to him aloud, like they were lounging in companionable silence.

Today, he passed by the passive animosity lurking on the corner of the couch, keeping as nonchalantly far away as possible. He sat down in his seat and settled into his coffee, working to ease the lurking headache a lack of REM sleep had granted him.

His phone sounded, a soft _bing-bong_ that indicated a text.

He'd been given a company phone at the end of the second week, as Carolyn needed some way of contacting him and he hadn't already owned one. He had very little minutes, but unlimited texting, as Carolyn preferred efficient communication. Arthur had told him, though, that she deigned to call Douglas when he went awol, so as to intimidate him with her abrupt, authoritative speech patterns.

If anything was sir, Martin thought with a rueful smile, it was she. He pulled his little black phone out and selected the text.

From: Arthur  
I don't think there's going to be much work today. Mum's being titchy, which normally happens when we don't have transports planned.

To: Arthur  
Not even one for Douglas?

From: Arthur  
Don't worry, he'll be off to Bristol toward to middle of the day, but not for a transport. He's got some sort of hearing. Going through a divorce, you know.

To: Arthur  
Oh. No, I didn't.

Martin tried very hard not to glance at Douglas between texts, and had been doing a good job of it, but after this last one, a strange sensation overcame him. His mind blanked. Without thinking to do or _not_ do so, Martin's head slowly rose until he was looking straight into the eyes of Douglas Richardson. Martin realized how very stupid it was to think gossip could exist in a workplace filled with psychics.

Douglas had one eyebrow raised dramatically, his brown eyes lazily detached, as always, but there was a tightness about them that stole Martin's breath. He felt, and knew, that he was in a terrible spot.

"Enjoying prying into my private life, are you, Martin?"

Somehow, the switch to his given name drove all hope of forgiveness out of his mind. Wholly and completely, Martin was doomed.

"I-I didn't actually inquire as to your personal life, I just--" The phone _bing-bong_ ed in his lap, and Martin glanced down at it.

"Yes, of course it's not your fault," Douglas said, laying an arm over the top of the sofa. "Not a bit of it." He picked up his cup of tea and swirled the contents around, staring down at it. He looked back at Martin again. "Are you interested in the details? Because I'd much prefer I tell you myself, than listen to Arthur's garbled version of the events."

 _Then don't peek_ , Martin thought, because he was still outraged every time Douglas carelessly invaded his privacy.

Douglas smiled at him, no teeth, just an innocuous curve of the lips. "I think I have every right to listen in on that particular conversation, Martin."

And, again, Martin checked himself. Doubted his stance. Douglas could convince anyone of anything, manipulate words in such a way that right was wrong and, more often, wrong was right. Martin knew this, in some corner of his mind, but when he was held captive by guilt and nervousness, he couldn't very well find the coordinates to that corner.

"I'm sorry," he said, just like he was always manipulated into saying. It wouldn't be until later that night that he hated himself for falling prey.

Douglas sighed, pulled his hand down from the sofa top, and stirred his tea. "Quite," he said.

And that was that.


	5. Potential and Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added some content to previous chapters. You may want to reread the two previous chapters (chapter 3, mostly; chapter 4 was hardly modified), but it is not vital to comprehension that you do so. 3/5/12

Against Martin's every expectation, he began to feel settled at MJN; even, dare he say it, _comfortable_.

He found a routine. It wasn't exciting, or marvelous, or anything to call home about--as nothing ever would be--but it was Martin's own, and that was good enough.

He woke with his alarm at six every morning and took a shower. He dressed in dark gray slacks, black shoes and belt, a white button up shirt, and a long, dark jacket. His only accessory was his cell phone. The clothes, he'd found in a relatively fancy, blissfully affordable shop in a neighboring town. He'd been in his second month of transport work at that point, and was finally able to afford respectable garb.

The first day he'd gone to work in his black leather shoes and respectable attire, Arthur had bestowed a smile upon him that was surprisingly gentle for one so excitable.

Carolyn, of course, had said nothing, reacted in no particular way, and Martin found this preferable.

Douglas, as was his way, had looked up briefly at Martin's entrance, appraised him vertically, and then turned away to snort into his newspaper.

"Dashing," he'd said, flipping to the sports section.

Martin hadn't trusted himself to respond in even tones, and so hid his burning face behind a book at the first opportunity. He had expected another comment, another look dripping with disdain, but it hadn't come.

In fact, Douglas hardly looked at Martin anymore.

Which... Martin should have been glad of, and he was, partially. He appreciated the silence, sometimes. It could be comfortable, and often was— _except_ for the off day when Douglas arrived late. Those days, the silence was, without exaggeration, hellish.

In the two months that Martin had known Douglas, he had endured seven late days. At first, they were composed of a sickly silence, which chilled Martin to his shaking bones; he could, nevertheless, ignore the sensation at that stage. By the fourth Late Day, the silence had become not only cold, but charged. Martin experienced a passive anxiety every moment that Douglas was in his presence, like acid slowly devouring his insides. This degree of Late Day could not be ignored, but it could be borne, at least.

However, the seventh and last Late Day was a torture without precedent.  
\--

Douglas arrived thirty minutes after Martin, greeted him with perfunctory politeness, made his own tea, and then transported directly onto the couch. Once there, he made no move to turn on the telly, and neglected to pick up his preferred magazine.

Martin was hardly interested in this turn of events at first. He was far more concerned with pretending he didn't exist, in the hopes that he would thus continue unnoticed. (This was his default coping mechanism for Late Days.)

However, minutes after being seated, Douglas picked up his tea and began to stir. He stared at the blank screen of the telly and dinged his spoon about the perimeter of the cup. The noise stayed small, and repeated at regular intervals.

Nevertheless, Martin found he could not ignore it, could not force it into the background of his awareness. In fact, it came to the foremost of his attention and would not be moved. It echoed around his head, the sound becoming like a gong ringing over mountains, though Martin knew somehow that it was still just a _ding_.

Then the blankness came, the emptiness of mind that Martin had come to fear meant invasion, except the _ding_ remained with him in the emptiness. It echoed, over and over again, in the terrifying nothingness—terrifying in theory only, because Martin could not feel, could not see, could not smell. He could only hear.

For an entire hour, Martin did not exist, if his senses were to be believed. It was not until Douglas left for his first transport of the day, not until the door closed behind him, that reality snapped back into place.

A ringing silence greeted him and an involuntary gasp of air wracked his newly aware body. As a torrential flood of emotion, of everything the mysterious blankness had held at bay, crashed down upon him, Martin heard the door of the lounge snap open. Terror struck him, and he whipped around, fearing the worst, fearing _Douglas_ and emptiness and death—

But a round, panicked face looked back at him, and Martin dropped his own into his hands in relief.

“Skip—Martin, how did this happen? I can't see it, you need to tell me what happened, because he didn't—it's blank, I can't _see_ what happened.” Empathic hands gripped Martin's shoulders.

His fear trickled away, and affection pushed at him—Arthur's affection, Martin realized distantly. But for all Arthur's effort, ten minutes passed in which Martin could do naught but shudder, gasp, and rub his weeping eyes.

Eventually, Arthur was called back to the front room, and Martin transported back to his home. There, he stewed in fear of another, worse Late Day, and trembled with equal parts fear and anger that he could not defend himself.

Arthur made no mention of the event afterward, though he touched Martin more often, watched him more attentively. It was left as an unspoken tension between the two of them, though Martin knew Arthur had told Carolyn; she watched him now, too. But she didn't speak of it either.

Martin didn't know if he was grateful for their discretion or resentful of it—resentful of their apparent worship of a man who had, and continued to, engage Martin in mental warfare. Their silence spoke to Martin; it said that Douglas would not be held accountable, and Martin for the life of him could not comprehend why. That Carolyn, especially, would be cowed by such a character was infuriating, and it was only with great restraint that Martin did not confront her on the subject.  
\--

At the end of the second month, Martin resolved to ask Arthur about it after work. Douglas had already left, as he was wont to promptly at 1900, and Carolyn was in the front area organizing the day's files.

Martin and Arthur, in a type of matching routine, stayed back in the lounge until Carolyn had finished tidying up the accounts every day. Normally, this period was an hour long, but that day it was fifteen minutes past the hour when Martin asked.

"Arthur," he started, looking down at his hand where it stroked the soft gray material of the couch. Martin only sat on the couch when Douglas wasn't around to claim it, and so felt a nervous pleasure every time he sat with Arthur on it. "I've noticed a sort of... pattern to Douglas."

Arthur, who was playing with a puzzle on the glass coffee table, stuck his tongue out as he tried to place a brown section of the jungle into place. With a sweetly childish, "There!" he snapped the last piece into place and leaned back into the couch. He sighed gratefully, rolling his neck back in a circular motion, before letting it rest in Martin's direction. "What sort of pattern?"

Martin bent his elbow and placed it on the back of the couch, resting his head in the proffered hand. "A... grouchy pattern," he said.

Arthur laughed, grinning up at Martin.

Martin's chest warmed and he could not help but smile in return. "I've noticed that, on the days that I arrive before he, or rather when he arrives late, there's a... an unpleasant _aura_ about him. I wouldn't go so far as to say that he freezes the air around him, but it wouldn't be an entirely exaggerated description."

Arthur smiled at Martin and raised his eyebrows. "On the days that he's late? He doesn't have a specific time that he has to show up, so really, he's never late."

Martin sucked in a breath. "What?" he said, leaning forward. " _What?_ "

Arthur pulled his head off the couch cushion and cocked it to the side. "He's a long-distance transporter, Martin. He's always on call. Mum has an online calendar for him that he has access to and it has every one of his appointments on it. Technically, he doesn't even have to use the lounge, though he prefers to. He could just... transport over three times a day, pick up his client or package, and be off."

Martin shook his head and pressed his right hand against his temple. He sighed out, rubbing his palm against an impending headache. "So, he doesn't have to be here every morning, but he is," Martin tried out, listening to himself say it so that he might believe it.

_He doesn't have to hurt me, but he does._

"Martin."

He felt Arthur's fingers along his brow. They pressed between Martin's own fingers and eased the pressure in his mind.

Martin sighed out and turned his palm, entwining his fingers with Arthur's and squeezing. "How do you do that?" he murmured into the back of his hand. "How do you always know?"

"I can feel it with you. Each time. I'm... surprised by how often Douglas upsets you, Skip, and I'm sorry." Arthur bit his lip from inside his mouth, depressing a point on the left side, before he sucked in a short breath and leaned in conspiratorially. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you, but you're good about my power so--I think you should know, Skip, that I know all the time, every moment, what Mum, Douglas, and you are feeling, and—and..." Arthur faltered, looking down.

Martin let their hands drop between them and squeezed again. “Tell me,” he pleaded, attempting to temper his overwhelming hunger for help.

Arthur glanced up at him, brows furrowed, then looked down again. He returned the squeeze weakly. “That... day. You know the one.”

Martin's breath caught. He nodded.

Arthur finally made eye contact with him. “I know when Douglas invades your mind, Skip. I know every time he does it, and—that day, he didn't. I know his intentions and his motives, and he... he didn't have any, not for you.”

Martin felt the blood leave his face. A cold sense of betrayal swept in before he could prevent it, and he knew Arthur felt it. Martin looked sharply away from those eyes, hand tingling unpleasantly in Arthur's grasp—a first. "I believe that's what you think, Arthur. But I know what kind of man Douglas is. I've met them before. And that day, I felt—"

Arthur extracted his hand from Martin's.

Martin had one moment to miss it, to panic that he'd caused offense, before—

"I know," Arthur said.

At that moment, Carolyn opened the door and Arthur stood up from the couch readily.

Martin swallowed the lump in his throat, looking from the businesslike woman in the doorway to the taller man who should be smiling. Martin's eyes caught Arthur's blue and he felt something in his mind reach forward, like a string had wrapped around the center of his mind and stretched outward. It would reach Arthur's, he realized, and his breath whooshed out. He would _know_ Arthur's mind!

"My apologies for the wait, Arthur," Carolyn said. "Are you ready?"

Arthur's eyes tore away, glancing at his mother as he formulated a response.

Martin didn't hear it. A weight fell on his chest, shoving the air from his lungs, and he was back in himself. Alone. He breathed in a gasp of air, eyes roving wildly around, searching. The breath left him violently in a wracking cough.

"Martin!" he heard Arthur shout and felt his hands seize and shake his upper arms.

A searing pain had started in the back of his head, had started to stretch down to the base of his spine. The terrifying blankness, that horror he knew so well, traveled in the pain's wake, and his world tilted on its axis. His eyes fluttered, beyond his control, and he collapsed on his side on the couch he so coveted. The foreboding numbness encompassed the entirety of his body, and he slept.


	6. Interloper(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin suffers a psychic break, and both gains and loses something intangible, shifting the nature of his relationships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's been five years. Without going into my life story, let me just tell you I had a lot going on. But I found this unpublished chapter on my old laptop, and thought you guys would appreciate it. I'm still on the look-out for my old outline, but whether I find it or not, I promise to finish this fic. Thank you guys!

Martin woke to the feel of a hand gripping his jaw tight. It squeezed him, slapped his cheek with considerable force once, twice, before sound bled back into Martin's perception.

"His sense of touch is still with him. It will soon fade, as did his other senses."

He heard the words, but as sound alone. There was no meaning that he could determine. The voice stopped, and Martin was left numb, captive in an unresponsive, dying case.

He found himself drifting away from his corporeal body. He felt outside himself, though still tied—as if by a cord—to an innate awareness of physicality. Away he dreamed, lulling in the tide of consciousness, or unconsciousness; he couldn't tell which. And then sound faded entirely.

\--

 

He was in darkness. Not a frightening darkness, but a calm emptiness that embraced him. He felt no bodily sensation, perceived his surroundings without senses, and yet he saw, heard, and felt. The sensations of this world were not real in the sense that he knew. He realized, suddenly, that he was without body and face; simultaneously, he felt that he should be alarmed, but he was not.

He became aware of a presence separate from himself. It presented itself as a gold strand stretching on into the emptiness. Without hands, he could not touch the being (for he felt that it was an entity, somehow), but he wished to handle it nevertheless. All at once, he longed for tactile sensation. The sorrow of loss permeated his consciousness, a slow, consuming sensation, that was in and of itself a confirmation of his loss.

While this current coursed though him, the golden strand thickened in his awareness. He perceived it stretching impossibly farther, thickening into the likeness of a braided rope, and that longing for _touch_ expanded unbearably. Until—

Martin grasped the rope.

\--

 

Martin regained consciousness with a great gasp of air, one which burned through his esophagus, his lungs, and rattled his chest cavity. His heart beat with shocking force, his veins pulsed to electricity, and his nostrils flared with the recognition of life.

He let out his breath, slumped forward, and closed his eyes. His forehead pressed to his knees and he breathed, deep, slow, thankful. For what, he was uncertain, but he could not shake the feeling that something unimaginable had been granted him. It was like... being born, he thought, letting a shaking laugh break through the haze of his mind.

On his next exhale, Martin leaned back in his bed and opened his eyes. He was in his room, he realized, running his fingers over the green comforter he'd slept with since adolescence. When he brought his eyes up to the closet across from the bed, the beginnings of a headache danced behind his brows and over his temple. Sleep beckoned him and, despite his frightful ignorance of how he'd come to be home, or if he was missing work, Martin turned over and let his eyes slide shut.

An unusual gratitude lingered in his core, where it stayed to warm and bind him in unconsciousness. He basked in emptiness with his golden gift.

\--

 

Martin's usual alarm woke him the next morning, and he got up to prepare for work, as had been his habit this past month. This day was like any other. He showered, shaved, dressed semi-formal, and departed. The only change one might have noticed was the notable ease with which Martin conducted himself. He noticed it like he might notice the smell of jasmine, or the sound of a breeze through tall trees. He knew it to be abnormal that he feel so comfortable in his skin, but he could not say it surprised him. It was right, he thought, that now he should feel this way. Everything was all right.

Abruptly, Martin stopped in his path through the house. It seemed a shame to walk, he thought, a shame to let his abilities go unused, unappreciated. Without a second thought, Martin jumped into subspace, lost his body for a moment, and then came to inside Knapp Shappey's Transport. The front room settled around him as sensation thrilled back up his skin.

Carolyn gave a start behind the counter with a sharp, "Ah!"

Martin was delighted, and though he smiled with it, the feeling gave him momentary pause. Should he not feel rueful? he wondered. "Oh, well," he said aloud, making eye contact with Carolyn. "Hello, Mrs. Knapp-Shappey. How are you today?" 

Pursed lips and a glare met his cheer. "Martin, what the devil do you think you're doing? Never, ever, _ever_ are you to transport into the front room. You know that. Or you did, before..." She broke off, grumbling to herself. She shuffled papers about on the counter pointlessly and cleared her throat. "Well. _Don't_ do it again. Understood?"

For the first time since awakening, Martin experienced unease. "Carolyn," he began, grin fading. "Before what?" He frowned, looking away from her. His right hand drifted distractedly to his temple, where he probed mindlessly. He didn't know what he was searching for, only that something which should be there to find... simply was not. He looked about the room again. "Arthur," he said, brightening. "Where's Arthur? I feel like he'd enjoy empathizing with me today. I often wondered if I wasn't a burden for him, before... Huh."

_Don't worry about that._

"I won't worry about that," Martin decided, smiling at Carolyn again. "Tell me when he comes in, will you? Thank you."

She watched him leave; he felt her eyes upon his back. He thought suddenly to turn and ask her again, more urgently, "Before _what_?" But an intangible force pulled him forward and away. He complied, inhibitions vanishing in the nothingness that came before re-materialization as he transported instantly into the lounge.

He was sat in his chair when he came back into himself, and as he sank into existence like a well stroked cat, he turned and saw Douglas.

Douglas read his habitual magazine on French cuisine with dull eyes, flipping lazily through the pages. He sipped his tea as a well-aged man will; that is, with appreciation, but without excitement.

Martin watched him, unabashed, and remembered fearing this man—remembered resenting his presence, wishing him gone, and longing to be like him all at once. Martin remembered, and smiled. "Douglas," he greeted, and gave in to the temptation of transport. He walked in serenity and reappeared in the kitchen, where he prepared his usual snacks and coffee.

When he reappeared in his chair, he noticed Douglas was no longer reading his magazine, though he held it before his face. Martin watched his adam's apple bob slowly up and down. "Martin," Douglas returned in light tones, breaking his stillness.

Martin brought his cup to his lips and drank, though the scent did not appeal to him as he thought it should. With a frown, he set it on the small table beside his chair. "Douglas," he started. "Have I missed any days of work?"

_Oh, this again? Don't worry about that._

Douglas watched him from the corner of his eye and raised an imperious eyebrow. "Surely not. You are a creature of routine, if nothing else."

Martin smiled faintly and leaned his head into his palm. "Of course," he replied, eying the news report on the telly with disinterest. Then, he had an idea. His gaze landed on the remote and he reached, not with his arm, but with the serenity of nothingness, and caught the item.

It disappeared.

Douglas started faintly. He turned his head to Martin and narrowed his eyes.

Martin held out his hand, smiled at the man, and—a second later—gripped his fingers around the plastic he had pulled into being there. "Let's watch a movie."

A beat of silence swamped the room.

Then, Douglas reclined against the back of the couch and smirked. "By all means, Chief. What shall it be? _The Notebook_?"

Martin laughed, fully and easily. When he had finished, he turned a fond smile on the other man, an unnamed force inside him reaching out in tandem with an inexplicable affection, a sense of _kin_.

An answering power, a swell of pushing, grabbing life, answered his call. For the first time, Martin knew his golden cord while conscious. It was struck with a whip of silver, which wrapped around his braid in a serpentine embrace.

Like acknowledged like, and Douglas Richardson and Martin Crieff smiled at one another.


End file.
